Safe
by iolre
Summary: It seemed as he gave up, the waves sensed his acquiescence, and let him go. He bobbed to the surface, the water vanishing as if it had never existed. No longer did he feel that he was choking, that he was dying. He was living, albeit a tenuous existence, barely above the water that threatened to consume him. He did not know how much time had passed before he heard a voice. John.


A/N: Was kind of anxious last night, so I wrote some angsty Johnlock fluff. My beta, Dreig, prompted me with "Safe". This is what came of it.

* * *

It was as if he was adrift, floating in the ocean, tethered to nothing. The waves lapped at his body, tugging and insistent, and once, twice he went under the water, not resisting. Yet the waves released him, let him rise to the surface, take another breath. It was peaceful, being suspended in the water, if disorienting. It was as if he had no compass, no sense of direction, no sense of time. He had no idea when it was, where he was.

Again he was swarmed by the water, and this time he felt it seep in through his nostrils, his mouth. If he had been able to, he would have coughed it up, would have flailed, protested. His arms and legs felt like they were merely weights masquerading as limbs, detached, refusing to listen to any commands he sent them. Accepting the inevitable, he did not fight the choking feeling invading his lungs, did not fight the water filling his airway. There was no point.

It seemed as he gave up, the waves sensed his acquiescence, and let him go. He bobbed to the surface, the water vanishing as if it had never existed. No longer did he feel that he was choking, that he was dying. He was living, albeit a tenuous existence, barely above the water that threatened to consume him. He allowed himself to take a deep breath, to breathe in the air around him, and then all went black.

He did not know how much time had passed before he heard a voice. It was saying something, something familiar. It was - crying? He felt his face twist into an expression of discomfort, although he could not determine why it had done so without his consent. "Sherlock?" A ragged voice. Someone had been sobbing, or was still on the verge of tears. Warmth, the feel of hot wind passing over desert sands, over vast expanses of dry land. Comfort, security, safety. A healer, a killer, wrapped up in a neat bundle. John.

His eyes weren't opening. Why weren't they opening? Why was his wretched body not listening to him? Slowly he was able to force them open just a sliver so he could glimpse the blond-haired man next to him. Some time must have passed, as the army doctor's head was pillowed on his arms, arms which were right next to Sherlock's hips, and he was asleep. His eyes were closed, yet even groggy and disoriented, Sherlock could read the deep lines etched into his face.

Making noise was harder than he had thought. It was complicated by the tube shoved down his throat. He was on a ventilator, he had a machine breathing for him. His memory. Something had happened - but what? Frustration lurked in the back of his mind when a search proved futile, dredging up nothing but the two waiting at Angelo's. They had been on a case - a serial murder, a man who shot and stabbed his victims before mutilating their corpses, yet Sherlock did not remember pulling it together. How had he ended up intubated in a hospital?

He must have made a noise, some frustrated, angry grunt that stirred the slumbering man next to him, for John lifted a hand to rub his ocean-blue eyes. Sherlock's hands were twitching spasmodically, his anger utilising whatever outlet was available to him. It was a delight to Sherlock, a happy little jolt to his heart when he saw John's eyes widen and take in the sliver his eyes were open. Immediately John was hitting something, a button - a call button? Summoning someone? Sherlock made unhappy whimpers around the tube as he fought to bend his mind to his will, to restore the easy deductions that he remembered so vividly.

A man appeared in the door, one he didn't recognize. He was speaking words, but they came across garbled, confusing. Sherlock didn't care, he didn't want this man. He wanted John, he wanted his flatmate, his friend, his anchor - he wanted him back. John stood back from Sherlock's bed, his arms crossed over his chest, worry consuming his entire body until it was a maelstrom of emotion. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hold him, to soothe him until his worries were no longer founded, until his face crinkled when he smiled and laughed, or when he was snorting at something Sherlock had said, or even the fond eye-roll he threw in Sherlock's direction when he destroyed the last of the milk.

Anything was better than this quiet worry, the swarm of fear and hesitance and worry that made Sherlock's insides flutter. From the heavy bandages around his abdomen, he doubted he would be doing any comforting in the near future. The man who was not John. Checking the signals, checking his transport's health. Deciding whether or not he could remove the endotracheal tube from Sherlock's body.

The decision was made, and carefully the tube was pulled out of Sherlock's throat, leaving him coughing and gagging in its absence. He took a deep breath, the air wracking bruised lungs sent spasms through his body as they coped with fresh air for the first time in - Sherlock didn't know how long. He had damaged ribs, then. Lifting his head he looked at John, imploring, trying to summon the doctor to his side with what he could not yet put in words. Using his foot to tug the chair in behind him, John sat down next to Sherlock's bed, his face solemn and serious. Sherlock's fingers twitched again and he huffed his frustration, laying his hands palm up on the bed, next to his hips. The unfamiliar man left, leaving the two alone.

John reached out and carefully, oh so carefully took one of Sherlock's long, pale hands in his, and the short, stocky, tanned skin of his hand so delightfully contrasted against Sherlock's that he wanted to weep at it, weep at the rightness of the feeling. His body spun around the point, anchoring itself to the wonderful, wonderfully warm palm, the fingers carefully twining between his, cradling his hand like it was precious. Sherlock felt warm. He felt comfortable, safe, loved. Feelings he could not remember experiencing for many, many years. His mother had never held him like this, never treated him like he was something to be cherished.

He croaked out an inquiry, or so he thought. John's eyes focused on his thoughtfully. So he made a noise, then, but not a clear one. He needed to work on his diction, and would do so at his next opportunity. Post-extubation clarity wasn't perhaps the most useful skill, but a Holmes never did anything halfway. Maybe he could convince John to intubate him. He doubted it. Although Sherlock felt that without a doubt, John would prefer he never needed a ventilator ever again. John was talking - what was he saying? Sherlock struggled to direct his attention towards him, towards the glorious anchor that was holding him so delicately, holding him so safely.

It had been a question, had been a request for clarification - that much was obvious from the intonation, from the way John was looking at him, but Sherlock had missed it. John, stalwart John, his defender, protector, the man who gave up so much for him without asking for anything in return. Sherlock was certain he could never love anyone, but he wished he could bring himself to love John. He lusted after him, certainly, and he craved his touch, craved the simple intimacy and comfort that John was showing him now. But that was simply caring, simply John being the doctor that he was innately. There was nothing else in the caress, nothing else in the slide of John's thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand beyond professional courtesy. Sherlock was far too damaged to be anything more than his friend.

"What happened?" He felt himself ask, felt the words escape chapped lips and hang heavily in the air. John swallowed, Sherlock watched his Adam's apple bob, eyeing the tanned throat with a speculative expression. He allowed himself to think, to imagine what it would be like to lick, to suck, to leave a mark there, proclaiming to all that John was his partner, that John was his, that no one else could touch him.

It was harder to follow what John was saying. Words strung together in a sentence, hanging limply, disoriented as Sherlock's fragmented mind struggled to pick out anything more complex than names or simple ideas. He had been shot, apparently. Several times. Had suffered cardiac arrest multiple times on the table. The feeling of fragility around his ribs suddenly made sense - one of the common side effects of cardiopulmonary resuscitation. His heart had stopped beating. The vision of him floating in the ocean, the water lapping at his body, was something he would ponder later. No doubt it would be an experiment John would never allow him to replicate.

A hand waved in front of his eyes, a hand that sent Sherlock's eyes immediately to its owner, confused, speculating. John was still cradling one of Sherlock's hands with his own, so it must have been with the other that he waved to get Sherlock's attention. A soft smile graced John's face, bringing with it echoes of his normal creases, a hint of normality that gave Sherlock such a rush of warmth that it nearly bowled him over. Or it would have, had he been out of the bed. "Are you there?" John said with a faint chuckle, his thumb still tracing patterns on the back of Sherlock's hand in a way that made him breathless. Sherlock nodded, eager to draw anything out of John that he could. A quirk at the edge of his lips, and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

"We nearly lost you," John murmured softly, his voice low and ragged, the vibrations sending tingles down Sherlock's spine as his ears soaked up John's words. "I nearly lost you." His eyes were bottomless pits, almost hungry as they bored into Sherlock's, and suddenly everything was too tight and frightening and Sherlock's heart was racing and it couldn't be happening and John couldn't be looking at him with that expression, couldn't be looking at Sherlock with warmth and caring and compassion and - and love. Sherlock felt a whimper escape his throat and his grip on John's hand tightened almost painfully.

"You didn't know, did you?" He didn't have to clarify what he was asking Sherlock, he didn't have to clarify anything at all, and Sherlock let a soft, pained noise escape his throat as he tried to convey how it was impossible, how John couldn't like him, couldn't love him. "Everything you think is showing up on your face," John murmured, his voice ragged and caring and so sweet that Sherlock shivered. "It's beautiful." Sherlock jolted away, although he dare not let go of John's hand, not lose his anchor, his sole connection. It was all he had, all he had, a connection to this fantasy John, the one that claimed to - to something. A low, bitter laugh fought its way up John's throat, the pain showing in his face. "I should let you get shot more often if this is what it gets me."

Sherlock glanced down at the heavy white bandages around his abdomen. He felt sluggish, barely able to move anything other than his arms, and certainly not his body. Yet all he wanted was John against him, John offering him comfort, nuzzling him, whispering something into his ear. "You can't move, Sherlock." John's voice was warm, honey-coated, comforting. It stripped down Sherlock's defenses, left him bare, left him wanting, and he looked at John, letting his emotions bleed into his gaze, unadulterated, undiluted, there. John's breath caught in his throat, his pupils dilating, and he shook his head. "You're compromised, sedated - the drugs, Sherlock. You've been given a lot of painkillers."

Sherlock managed to tilt his head, increase the intensity of his stare, keep his voice steady, although it fought to shake. "I have wanted you for a long time," he murmured. The physical injury, the way John was with him, everything was combining, lowering his defenses, and for the first time in many, many years, Sherlock felt free. It was the feeling he had wasted years looking for, using cocaine as a weapon, yet never being able to find. Here it was, wrapped in a jumper-clad package, and it was offering itself freely to him. Even worried about his honour. If Sherlock had been feeling better, he would have maybe even found it cute. As it was now, he found it annoying. He tilted his head, his gaze lingering between John's lips and his eyes, insistent, patient.

John sighed, long-suffering, as if it was physically hurting him that Sherlock was practically throwing himself at him. As much as an invalid could throw himself really, anyway. John leaned forward and Sherlock focused eagerly on his lips, stretching as far as he was able to until finally, finally he felt John's lips against his. It was utter, sheer perfection and Sherlock could have died and been happy - although not really, because then he would miss the opportunity to experiment with John's lips being utterly perfect in other areas, and since it was for Science and the Work, Sherlock was all for it. The personal benefit was a side effect, really, a trifle, a bauble. Whining quietly in disappointment when John pulled back, he pulled his face muscles into what he hoped was a petulant scowl.

"You need to sleep, you know," John pointed out, far too wisely. Sherlock growled, and John laughed. Sherlock wiggled his hips as best as he could, attempting to make room on the bed for John. Cocking an eyebrow, the military doctor looked from the bed to his flatmate - or whatever they were now. Sherlock would ignore proper titles in favor of getting John Watson into his bed so he had something to curl up with, something to anchor to. "I don't think I'll fit. I don't think they'll let me, matter of fact."

"Need you." Sherlock's admission was quiet, nearly frightened, and the change it provoked in John was nearly as frightening as it had been to admit. John's eyes widened, his body stiffening and then relaxing in turn. "Scared."

"Well, I can't argue with that," John muttered good-naturedly. He stood up, eyeing Sherlock and the various tubes that were attached to his body, and then carefully reached underneath him and pulled. It shifted him just enough to open a spot on the side for John to curl up next to him. It would offer Sherlock nothing extra besides the comfort he sought. Casting cautious looks at the door, John pulled off his jumper and took off his socks and shoes, placing them onto the chair he had recently vacated. It was awkward at first, John curled up against Sherlock's side, but then Sherlock felt his internal compass shift to align to the man in the bed next to him. He was sturdy, like an anchor, and warm, like the sun, and Sherlock felt everything become easier as he adjusted to the presence next to him.

"Sleep," John told him, a finger trailing along Sherlock's cheek bone, cupping his face, a thumb tracing his lips. Although John couldn't do much, Sherlock felt his presence, even with his eyes closed. He felt safe. Cherished. Loved. Like he mattered, like he was worth something. A soft, tender set of lips pressed against his own, a simple chaste kiss that sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. John settled back next to him, his right hand intertwined with Sherlock's left as best they could with the IVs and pulse ox. His left hand was stroking Sherlock's face, his lips, his collarbones, petting and caressing and comforting, all at the same time. His smile melted Sherlock's last resistance, and he allowed himself to give up the last shred of his self-control and slip effortlessly into sleep.


End file.
